As the Moon Loves the Sun
by sunandshadow
Summary: Grima called Wormtongue would lead all Rohan to its doom to posses Eowyn. Faramir finds himself fascinated by the dark Grima. And Eowyn sees in Faramir a golden prince made after the image of the brother she worships.
1. Chapter One

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Title: As the Moon Loves the Sun (1/2)

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Author: sunandshadow

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Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (Movie Version)

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Pairing: Grima/Faramir/Eowyn

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Spoilers: The Two Towers.

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Summary: Grima called Wormtongue would lead all Rohan to its doom to posses Eowyn. Faramir finds himself fascinated by the dark Grima. And Eowyn sees in Faramir a golden prince made after the image of the brother she worships. o.O An exercise in possible reactions to unrequited love and the ethics of trying to seduce someone counter to their normal sexual orientation. This story begins a few weeks before Gandalf's arrival at Edoras.

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Warnings: AU, Het, Slash

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Rating: R

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What's AU: When Theoden King sent to Gondor for aid against the orcs, the Lord of Gondor did not deny them, but sent Faramir and his company. Boromir doesn't die, but instead accompanies Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli to Edoras after the breaking of the fellowship. Theodred doesn't die because Wormtongue is too busy to try to kill him. Some would argue that Faramir's character is AU, but IMHO my Faramir is just the sort of guy who would make up a story about a holy spring in order to get some information out of a hobbit without resorting to force; just the sort of guy who would know enough about evil to not take the ring; and possibly the sort of guy who, if he no longer had an older brother to provide an heir, might marry Eowyn for the sake of his country's morale.

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Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, not making any money, just amusing myself and hopefully some others. Also, most of the characters need to get a clue about what homosexuality is, and their statements do not reflect my opinions. Except for Faramir; I mostly agree with his philosophy about the matter.

Huge thank-yous to my lovely beta Joanne, without whom this first half of the story might never have been finished! /Me hugs Joanne! ^_^ Thank you also to Mimine, for her sharp anachronism and brain-o finding! ^_^ Cookies for both of you!

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As the Moon Loves the Sun

(Part I of II)

by sunandshadow

Once upon a time a time in the lands of the Rohan horsemen there was a woman who was as the sun of the Rohirrim. Her fair cheeks were gilded with the kiss of sunshine, and her hair was like a river of gold. She was a shieldmaiden, and her skill, her honor, and her beauty made her the fairest treasure of the royal house of Eorl. Her name was Eowyn.

Also in the lands of the Rohirrim there dwelt a dark and cursed man, by name Grima son of Galmod, but known to all men as Wormtongue. If Eowyn was the sun of the Rohirrim, the Wormtongue was their moon, pulling them to strange tides and inspiring lunacy. He was sickly and pale as the bleached bones of trees or men, with hair like a murder of crows and a mantle of shadow. And indeed he was as he was named, quick of wit and slick of tongue; and he wormed his way into a position as the advisor to Theoden the King. It was not that Grima craved power, as some men do, nay… it was that he was drawn to the pure beauty of the Lady Eowyn as the moon, having no light of its own, craves to reflect the sun; as a moth to the flame. Theoden King was the Lady's uncle and guardian, and it was Grima's thought that if he won the King's favor, so might he win the Lady's.

But it was not to be. The shieldmaiden Eowyn had no admiration for the cunning and clever, no pity for the dark and cursed. She worshipped her older brother Eomer and waited to love a man as princely and golden as he. The darkling Grima was beneath her thought, and she spurned him without qualm or hesitation.

Some three days ride to the south of the realm of the horsefolk lay the land of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor. As the Lord Steward was the nearest Gondor had to a King, so the nearest it had to Princes were Denethor's sons, Boromir and Faramir. And indeed, the younger son Faramir was a Captain of Gondor, and as princely and golden as Eowyn or any maiden might ask. His grey eyes were changeable as the sky: sometimes whimsical with fleecy white clouds, sometimes bitter with rain, but looking into them was always a breath of freedom for the observer. Yet Faramir's comeliness came at a high cost, for it brought with it the ire of Lord Denethor, who was dark of face and feature, and doubted that any child as fair and sunlit as Faramir could have come from his loins. And surely, surely no son of his could have such an unnatural bent as all the rumors said Faramir did.

Lord Denethor did not publicly accuse Faramir of being not his true-born son, or of any other flaw; the Lord Steward had no wish to cause his country strife, or to publicize his own cuckoldry and shame. But when the shadow of war came upon the land, and an orc horde threatened, Denethor saw his opportunity and sent Faramir away with a small company of men. He sent Faramir under the guise of giving aid to their neighbor-land of Rohan, but in his heart he sent Faramir away to find some other land to call home, or fall to an orcish blade, whichever the fates decreed. Early on the morn of his departure Lord Denethor called Faramir to him privately and warned him never to return.

"Faramir, to all the people of Gondor you are my son and the second heir to the stewardship, and I would not distress them by telling them otherwise. I would not besmirch your mother's memory by accusing her of unfaithfulness to me, even you I would not harm by disinheriting you and leaving you without prospect."

Faramir thought bitterly, _I suppose I ought to thank him for that_, but remained silent.

"Yet I think the time has come for you to make a place for yourself somewhere else. You have your orders to ride to Edoras and offer our aid to them. After that you may stay in the Riddermark or go elsewhere, as you wish, but do not return to Minas Tirith. I am not exiling you – you may return for your brother's wedding, or such an event – but you may not return here to live. If you attempt to do so I _will_ disinherit you. Is that clear?"

"Clear as a mountain stream." Really he ought to have added a 'Sir' or 'my Lord', but Faramir had not the patience for false courtesies at the moment.

"Then you are dismissed. Fare well."

Faramir raised one eyebrow in acknowledgement of the irony. "I shall endeavor to." Then he turned on his heel and left the Lord Steward's chambers.

Captain Faramir rejoined his company silently, wearing an odd, grim smile. His Lieutenant and good friend Balimond inquired what Lord Denethor had spoken. "Oh," said Faramir, his smile a little wider and a little more grim, "my Lord Father merely wished to give me his blessing."

Balimond knew that something was amiss, but he asked no more, knowing there was old ill will between the Lord Steward and his son. Instead Balimond smiled softly and gestured to the two mares he led, saddled and provisioned, and said in long-familiar jest, "See Faramir, I have the ladies ready. Have you the men?"

The corner of Captain Faramir's mouth quirked, and his smile turned small but true. "Yes, Balimond, you the ladies and I the men, I'd not have it any other way." he chuckled. Then he swung up on the ebon mare, and shouted to his men, "To me, Gondor! Tonight we ride for Rohan!" The men returned his shout and formed up to march, while Balimond, grinning, mounted his own sorrel mare and kneed her to Faramir's side. In all the clamor it was only Balimond who saw Faramir pat his mare and heard him tell her, "Say farewell to Minas Tirith, Raven, for nor you nor I will set foot here again." And Balimond, who was a wise friend, understood and said nothing. The company's standard bearer raised a staff bearing the silver tree, and the double column of riders set off with Faramir and Balimond at the head and a party of foot soldiers following behind.

***

It is both the curse and the blessing of the cunning man never to be idle. Grima (though no man lived who would hail him aught but Wormtongue) had been very far from idle. Seeing that he would never win the fair Eowyn with persuasion or serving her uncle in good faith, Grima had selected other means by which to attack the problem: namely those of dissimulation and subterfuge. An offer from the wizard Saruman came at an opportune moment, and a deal was struck: Grima would drug the King into remaining at peace despite the increasing orc threat, and Saruman would reward the dark man by enspelling Eowyn to love him. Grima was no fool – he knew that he was betraying his people to their doom, but felt this to be only just recompense for their lifelong maltreatment of him. He knew that it was unlikely he would survive Sauron's victory over Middle-Earth, but felt his death a fair price for a few years of bliss with Eowyn; and then again, perhaps with Saruman's favor he might not only survive, but even prosper under the new order. Grima Wormtongue knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he slipped the first dose of drug into his King's mead.

It looked, to the Rohirrim who weren't familiar with the intrigues and assassinations of more civilized nations, as if Theoden son of Thenegal had merely fallen ill, perhaps with a brainfever. Grima was well known to be as learned in leechcraft as in statecraft and scribery; he was a natural choice to tend the fallen King. He prescribed as a tonic the same drug that had laid the King low in the first place, but at a slightly lower dosage; thus the King appeared to be improving slowly under Grima's care, when in fact each day he fell further under the spell of the darkling's soothing whispers. Eowyn suspected the cursed man, but she had no evidence and no authority. And this was the state in which things lay on the afternoon that Eowyn and Grima stood on a portico watching the arrival of Faramir and his company beneath a stormy sky, both the dark man and the fair woman wondering how this Knight-Captain and almost-prince would alter their futures. However, there was none present, man or woman, dark or fair, who could have guessed how strange a turn their fate was eventually to take, and that this day would be the start of it all.

***

Faramir thought it a bad sign, if not totally unreasonable in time of war, when he was asked to hand his weapons over before his audience with the King. In precaution of his own, he left his sword with Balimond, leaving his trusted companion armed and outside the audience hall whence he might effect a rescue if the Rohirrim attempted to take Faramir captive. Then Faramir gathered his courage, for he was feeling naked without his sword, despite the dagger still hidden in his boot. What good could a dagger do against the armed guards of Rohan? Little enough. Yet Faramir straightened his back and stood to his full height, and strode into the Meduseld as befit a Captain of Gondor and heir to the Stewardship.

What Faramir saw, as his eyes adjusted to the shadowy room, was this: On a dais stood a gilded throne, and on it a withered and white-bearded man crowned as a King, who looked half-caught in a fitful dream. Could this be Theoden? Faramir had set eyes upon the King before, at a diplomatic meeting between Rohan and Gondor, but that had been years ago, when Faramir was little more than a child and the King had been a proud, hale warrior. Behind his chair stood a proud golden maiden gowned in white, presumably his niece Eowyn, as she was the only female member of the royal family. And at the foot of the chair sat a man with hair and mantle of inky black, his pale face a shocking contrast to the shadows. The man looked up to meet Faramir's gaze, and Faramir, with a quiet startled indraw of breath, beheld the most fragile cerulean eyes he had ever seen in a man's face. Eyes like clear tidal pools reflecting the summer sky… Those beautiful eyes looked wary, as if what they expected from Faramir was an attack, and Faramir found himself aching to prove that assumption wrong. Self-defensively Faramir tore his gaze away, only to have it caught again by Eowyn's expression, which seemed to ask, 'Do you come to save us, or will you add to this travesty?' Her eyes were also blue, but dark like the stormy sky outside. It was too much, all at once, and Faramir blinked and shook his head slightly to clear it.

Uncertainly, but wanting instinctively to reassure the man and the woman, Faramir directed his address to the ailing King. "I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor, son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor." This might not be literally true, but it was the proper way to introduce himself. "I am come with a company of men to answer Rohan's request for aid against the Orcs. The men of the silver tree stand ready to lend our swords to Theoden King. Are we welcome, Rohan? Why do you not trust my honor with my arms?"

It was not the King who answered, but the dark man who sat at his feet. Faramir made the mistake of meeting his pale, fragile blue eyes again, and his voice when he spoke crept over Faramir's skin like hesitant spidery fingers. "_Good_ Captain, it is only sensible that we be cautious with our guests in such… unstable times, don't you agree?"

Faramir shivered at the desire blooming in the pit of his belly, so distracted he just stared hungrily at the man's pale lips for a moment before it occurred to him that he had been asked a question, and ought to nod in response. _Oh gods, I'm in love_. thought Faramir with a mix of wry humor and sheer panic. _What do I do, what do I say? Oh, I'd _love_ to- Arr, I shouldn't think about that _now_, this audience calls for delicate diplomacy, not adolescent blushes and fumbles!_

Faramir took a deep breath and gathered up his scattered wits. "Unstable times, yes… You… do you speak for Theoden King? Who are you?" _Can I kiss you? Please?_

"Men call me Wormtongue. The King has, most unfortunately, been ill of late. Until he recovers his strength I shall do my poor best to speak as he would." '_Wormtongue'?!_ _ Oh good gods… I'd love to have that tongue wrapped around _my_ 'worm'… or perhaps his tongue worming its way into my… ahem._ Faramir mentally slapped himself, and absolutely forbid himself to ponder the possible entendres of that name, at least until he had safely concluded this audience.

"If you speak for the King, then speak. What would you have me do?"

"Unfortunately, good Captain, in Rohan none but the King himself have the authority to accept command of an army, and as you can see he is currently unable to do so. And our troubles are perhaps not as dramatic as were reported to you – you know how messengers tend to exaggerate these things. It seems foolish to have summoned you and your men all this way for nothing, but surely Gondor needs your efforts against Mordor more than Rohan needs assistance in dealing with a few orc incursions."

Faramir raised one eyebrow in disbelief. Not only would it be ridiculous to have marched to Edoras only to turn around and go back home again, he _couldn't_ go home – Gondor was no longer his home to go to. "What Gondor does _not_ need is to be fighting Mordor on two fronts. I read the battle logs myself, and what is happening here is not an unusually heavy amount of normal raiding, but a campaign of attrition presaging an invasion. I do not know whence this invasion will come – I myself was trained in the tower of the respected Saruman the White, and it seems to me most unlikely that he has suddenly developed a taste for conquest. More likely that an agent of Mordor has adopted his Sigil to sow confusion. But Lord Denethor has commanded me to take up a post in the Riddermark for whatever length of time it takes to assure that Gondor's northern border will not be challenged."

This 'Wormtongue' looked alarmed at this assessment, and Faramir hastened to reassure the mesmerizing man. "Fear not, my Lord, uh, Wormtongue, this is no invasion; though I could encamp my men near the border and simply start building a hill fort there, I would prefer to serve with Rohan, not against her. If your King cannot accept my command, I will take council with the acting warleader, Theodred or whomever has been appointed."

He did not look reassured. "Really, it would not be at all proper for you be commanded by Theodred in the absence of the King's permission."

Hmm. Perhaps a tone of levity would work better to soothe his alarm? Faramir subtly struck a pose and gave the other man his best flirtatious grin. "I have never been a man to worry overmuch about what is proper, only what works."

"Indeed, a wise maxim, Captain, yet it is propriety that makes the difference between civilized men and barbarians, is it not?" Faramir's brow furrowed slightly as he tried to puzzle out whether the Lord Wormtongue had agreed with him or not. "Surely it will not be many days before the King recovers enough to accept the charge of your company. And in the meantime… of late these mysterious orc incursions have required the efforts of so many of our men that we have been forced to neglect more domestic tasks – the very roof of the golden hall is in sore need of repair! So perhaps you could billet your men here in Edoras and direct them to making a few repairs around the city? Doubtless your men could use a short break from battle, that they will be the more ready for it when they can rightly be sent thence?"

Faramir considered this. Indeed, a few days off and a chance to explore this new city and mingle with its inhabitants would please his men. And any wise commander would study the area and build fortifications before attempting to direct campaigns and patrols therein. He could send detachments of ten or twenty men with each of the riders' patrols to 'learn the area', and if they ended up fighting some orcs in the course, why any man must defend himself and his companions, must he not? Satisfied, Faramir nodded to himself and smiled sunnily. "Indeed my Lord, that seems equitable. I shall proceed as you suggest. Have you an aide who can assist with the billeting?"

The dark man was at last content enough to reply with a small smile of his own, much to Faramir's pleasure. The details of the billeting were settled quickly, and the interview ended with Faramir satisfied to reclaim his sword and begin making a place for himself in the court of Edoras. 

***

Balimond smiled at the safe return of his Captain, then frowned at Faramir's dazed expression. "Faramir? Does something ail you?"

Faramir focused on Balimond and smiled wryly. "Indeed, I am stricken."

Balimond looked alarmed. "How, poisoned? Wounded? Have these men of Rohan no honor to attack an unarmed guest in their hall?!"

Faramir made a calming gesture. "No, no, I am not harmed, the Rohirrim are as honorable as stories say."

Balimond was still slightly alarmed, and now quite confused as well. "But what then? You said stricken!"

"Stricken through the heart, Balimond. Pity me, for I find myself terribly in love."

Balimond blinked, then a grin bloomed on his face. He cuffed Faramir jovially on the shoulder. "Dog! You had me worried. In love indeed! With whom? Tell me all!"

Balimond's grin was contagious, and Faramir reluctantly echoed it. A little more able to focus his attention now, he looked around and noticed that there were several people in ear-shot, including a Rohan guardsman who was listening avidly while trying to looked inconspicuous. Faramir snorted. "Gladly will I tell you, but not with half the camp listening. Later, when we are behind closed doors."

"Bastard." Balimond cuffed Faramir again in friendly annoyance. "Will you leave me in a torture of suspense?"

"Sorry, friend." Faramir turned and began shouting orders to get his company settled into the town.

Balimond took the mares to put them in the Rohan stable. He chuckled to himself and called to Faramir, "Let us hope I have as good luck with the ladies, eh?"

Faramir called back, "Indeed, luck to you! Luck to me as well, I fear I'll need it…" Balimond clucked to the mares and began leading them away, and Faramir turned back to his own task, reflecting on the unlikelihood that his luck would take him any farther – it would strain probability that the dark man with the impossible pale eyes would also have the strange bent of desiring men the way a normal man like Balimond desired women.

And a big-eared Rohanian guardsman slipped away and ran to bear Faramir's words to his master Wormtongue.

***

"And then the Captain explained, 'stricken through the heart,' and craved that his Lieutenant would 'pity him' for he was 'terribly in love'!"

"With Eowyn." spat Grima bitterly. It was not a question – Eowyn had been the only woman in the audience hall, and even had she not been, how could any man not be enthralled by her beauty?

"He did not speak her name, Lord Wormtongue, but told his friend he would say more when they were where none could overhear." The guardsman hurried to add reassuringly, "They did not see _me_, my Lord, the Captain was speaking of his men, a handful of whom were close enough to hear. Shall I return and listen further?"

"Yes, go." Grima tossed the man a coin. "You have done well so far in bringing me this information; let us hope your… profitability continues."

When the man was gone and there were none left to observe, Grima rose to pace and reason with himself. _Why have I such cursed luck?! This princeling is as tall and fair as Eomer – if there is any man who can capture Eowyn's proud heart it will be he. I must keep the two apart! Yet how? I could not convince him to return home, I may not order him somewhere away from here – I may not order him at all, thanks to my own law!_ He gritted his teeth and hissed in annoyance.

__

At the least, he is naïve of Saruman's turn to the dark. Would that I had thought of accusing another of taking Saruman's symbol, but it will be more believed from Faramir than from I. He was trained at the tower as I was; doubtless he feels some loyalty to his old instructor. He has agreed to sit idle and waste resources repairing roofs and walls rather than slaughtering the Uruk-hai; indeed, I might be well satisfied at his addition to this court, were it not that he was thrice-bedamned smitten_ with Eowyn. I _must_ do something about this. I must warn Eowyn away from him, and he from her!_ Course of action decided upon, Grima turned on his heel and glided out the door.

*** 

The Lady Eowyn, in the meanwhile, was also pacing. Had anyone told her that this gave her something in common with Wormtongue she would have stopped immediately; but there was no one there to tell her so, and consequently she continued pacing. Although Boromir had passed through Rohan a few months ago on his way to chase a dream, Eowyn had not seen the younger Steward-heir in a handful of years. _This Faramir… he looks a fine prince, of courteous mien and loyally followed by his men. Yet Wormtongue will weave his lies, and Faramir will end up with his men sitting on their hands doing nothing! I must aid him – his smile was like sunlight, sweeping away the shadows that have ruled this Meduseld for too long, and I cannot stand to see Wormtongue weave his shadows to entrap Faramir as he has done to Eomer and I! I must contrive to sit beside him at the feast tonight and speak with him, alert him to the danger before it is too late!_

Eowyn resolved that when Eomer returned she would seek him out and have him help her construct a plan. In the meanwhile, however, she had duties of her own to attend to – today was a sewing day, and if she wanted to have a new gown this season, she had better not be late to join the lower noble ladies at their stitchery.

***

All his orders given, Faramir wandered into the Golden hall, the 'Meduseld' as the Rohirrim named it, wandering about admiring its architecture and studying its layout. So far it seemed to be charmingly wrought, but utterly useless in terms of defensibility. Were the walls of the city ever breached by the Uruk-hai, this would not be at all a good stronghold to fall back to. Faramir turned a corner, and who should he spot leaning inconspicuously against a pillar but the Lord Wormtongue, who wore a very peculiar look on his face. Faramir followed his gaze… to Eowyn, where she sat sewing with a few other women. And now Faramir recognized Grima's look – it was a look of wanting with no hope of having, because the thing you ached for was utterly out of your reach. Faramir winced, feeling an odd mixture of jealousy and sympathy, and withdrew before anyone saw him.

***

That evening there was a feast in honor of the arrival of the Gondorrim, to which both Faramir and his Lieutenant were invited. Though he thought it unlikely that he would succeed at impressing the only one whose opinion he truly cared about, Faramir carefully garbed himself in a flattering tunic of gray-violet, with eye-catching white shirtlaces and leggings. Balimond teased Faramir about his trying to make a good impression on the mysterious man he was so overwhelmingly smitten with. Faramir just agreed, and said, "Look for the pale one with the hair black as Raven's coat, and pale blue eyes. Not tall, but striking. He is a councilor to the King; a scribe and a scholar. That is the one I like."

When they entered the feast a servant instructed Faramir to sit opposite Prince Theodred, with Balimond at his left hand, but Third Marshal Eomer intervened, apologizing that he really needed to speak to Theodred and surely Faramir would be happier to be entertained by his gracious sister Eowyn. Faramir raised an eyebrow suspiciously at this, but saw no real reason to object, and so found himself seated to Eowyn's left. From this position he could not talk to Balimond, but used his eyes to gesture when Grima entered the dining hall, indicating, _Look there, that one_. He was amused to see Balimond's eyes widen, then his nose wrinkle with comic distaste – it was a rare man indeed who would agree with Faramir's aesthetic taste, and Balimond had never been one of them. But that was fine, as Faramir could never see why Balimond preferred his women to have behinds as broad as a horse's either. Their wildly different tastes were something of a recurring jest between them.

Faramir, noting the Lady Eowyn smiling at him, ceased his musings upon Balimond and Grima to take up the courtly duty of making polite conversation with one's dinner partner. They worked their way through the current state of Edoras and Minas Tirith, their relatives health, and what their favorite pursuits were, finding that on this last subject they had a surprisingly great deal in common, both liking swordplay, riding, dreaming up ways to help their respective countries, and just watching people, peasants and nobles alike, as they went about their daily lives. Eowyn was so delighted with their common interests that she remarked, "We are alike as if we were made for each other, to be the golden Lord and Lady who bring hope and beauty back to the land."

Faramir smiled wryly. "I'm afraid we are perhaps _too_ alike for that, you and I."

"How so?"

"Well… think of it this way, my Lady: sunshine added unto sunshine is only more sunshine, and too much would wither the crops as they stand in the fields. Were there only day and no night, men would weary themselves unto sickness with trying to stay awake and working. But when sunshine is combined with shadow the world gains dawn and morning, eve and twilight. A world with both light and dark has room for both the eagle and the owl, and time for men to work and play and rest in."

"And who would you have for your shadow?" inquired Eowyn curiously. Faramir turned to gaze at the Lord Wormtongue where he sat watching the table. He looked like a hawk who has invited several hares to a dinner of salad and was now going to choose his own dinner from among his guests. Faramir smiled at the whimsical image.

Eowyn followed his gaze, grimaced at the sight of Wormtongue, and turned back to Faramir thinking that _he_ was much easier on the eyes, particularly when wearing that wistful crooked smile. "Will you not answer me, my Lord?" asked Eowyn coaxingly. "I will not be angry if you say there is some dark Lady back in Minas Tirith your heart is set on."

Faramir turned back to Eowyn with a faint ironic smile. "But my Lady, I _did_ answer your question. Saw you not whereon I gazed?"

Eowyn looked the perfect picture of innocent confusion. "I did follow your look, but…" she trailed off.

Faramir turned to gaze again at Grima, saying softly to Eowyn, "There is indeed someone my heart is set on, but you have guessed twice wrongly: the one I would have as my shadow does not dwell in Minas Tirith, and it is not a Lady."

Eowyn gasped with sudden understanding of a thing she did not think she wanted to understand. Grima, attention caught by Eowyn's odd expression, gave her a soulful look, then glared at Faramir. Faramir gave a quiet, wry cough of laughter and continued, "And would I were truly as like you as you say, for he seems to like you the better."

"Please tell me you are jesting." begged Eowyn, politely but with a hint of desperation in her voice.

"My apologies, my Lady," he said, still in a soft voice that would not carry to the rest of the table, "I would fain be friends with you, as we truly do have much in common, but I am simply not a man made for the love of women. It is one of the reasons I am grateful to be the second heir to the Stewardship and not the first."

Eowyn waved his apology away. "Nay, that I can understand, you need not apologize. I have heard of such a thing among soldiers before, I am not quite so innocent as I look. What I cannot believe is… _him_?! Grima son of Galmod, whom all men name Wormtongue because he lies like a serpent?! Oh my Lord Faramir, you may be charmed by his silvertongue, but you do not know of his evil crimes!" she said, barely managing in her distress to keep her voice low.

Faramir looked surprised and distressed at this news. "I am listening." he said, signaling Eowyn to list the evils Grima was accused of. And list them she did, checking every few moments to be sure none of Wormtongue's spies could overhear them. From the King's illness and Eomer's discrediting to the Uruk-hai bearing Saruman's white hand, who had been tracked back to the wizard's own tower, which had strange new smoking pits around it. Faramir heard all this with much distress, and was about to question more closely into the matter of his old teacher Saruman when, with the feast winding down, Grima left his seat and glided up behind them, clamping a hand on each of their shoulders. Minion of evil of not, Faramir couldn't help but grow aroused at his touch.

"What serious counsel is it that disturbs you so, my Lord, my Lady?" he inquired acidly, not quite managing to hide his irritation under his air of politeness. "This is a feast of welcome – surely you can find something pleasant to discuss?"

Eowyn, angry at Wormtongue's clammy hand on her shoulder, replied snidely, "Little matter indeed is there for pleasant discussion when one daily watches war creep up to pounce on an unprepared people, _my Lord_."

Wormtongue snarled, "The _King_ is _tired_, Lady Eowyn. You _will_ help me put him to bed, won't you? Such a _dutiful_ niece…" Releasing Faramir with one last glare, he led Eowyn away to the King, then out of the dining hall with the old man shuffling between them.

Faramir restrained a whimper at the abrupt withdrawal of that powerful presence, more intense even than he had imagined it would feel when he had studied the councilor at the audience earlier. Then he glanced down at his lap and resigned himself to dawdling at the table for another few minutes – he had forgotten how obvious an erection was in these damned white leggings.

***

Wormtongue did a perfect impression of civility while he and Eowyn put the King to bed, blew out his candle, and left the room. Then he turned on her. "Eowyn," he demanded, seizing her by the wrist, "What had Faramir to say to you this night?"

In instinctive response to the threat of his anger she opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. "You _will_ tell me," he demanded, looking thunderous at her hesitation.

She tried again, and managed to stammer out the first thing that sprang to her mind. "H-he told me who he fancies." She braced herself for further interrogation, but instead Grima released her wrist and spun away, hissing.

When he had gotten his temper under control, he spun back to face Eowyn and said commandingly, "My Lady Eowyn, I believe it would be in your own best interest for you to stay as far from this Gondorian princeling as possible."

Eowyn regarded Wormtongue with a fresh horror. "Surely you do not…" The words 'requite him' stuck in her throat and refused to be spoken. It was too awful to contemplate – if Wormtongue took Faramir's heart with his silver-tongued lies it would be a worse tragedy than any of his legion crimes against the people of Rohan.

Grima's brow furrowed in angry confusion. "Surely I do not _what_? Think Faramir a brash young noble who could be a dangerous influence on you and your brother? Indeed I do! He is exactly the type who overly values his own looks and would think nothing of taking a maiden's honor!" Suddenly Eowyn could breathe again, then had to press her lips together to keep herself from giggling in dizzy relief and at the sheer _wrongness_ of Wormtongue's characterization of Faramir. Did he think Faramir liked _her_? Perhaps it has appeared that way, with them spending the feast in such intense conversation. It seemed he had no idea Faramir was 'that way'.

Yet, though Wormtongue's mistake amused her, it could be dangerous if his jealousy drove him to plot against Faramir. Carefully, Eowyn gathered her thoughts and asked, "What makes you think so? He seemed courteous enough to me, though I suppose I could be mistaken."

Grima, heartened to hear Eowyn not defending Faramir very vigorously, immediately seized the opportunity to launch into the anti-Faramir speech he had prepared, carefully twisting each of the man's obvious virtues to a fault. Untangled from his rhetoric and summarized briefly, his argument was something along the lines of, 'Faramir was too handsome, too young, too clever, too royal, too much a soldier, paradoxically too much a scholar, and if he was really polite and sensible he would go home to Gondor and take his men with him!'

Eowyn dismissed most of the arguments, picked two to pretend to be concerned by, and agreed grudgingly not to be alone with Faramir, which mollified Wormtongue enough that Eowyn did not think she needed to fear for Faramir's life. Then she played her trump card – having to change for bed – and shooed Wormtongue (who seemed to be shy about such things) out of her room.

***

Meanwhile, Faramir had managed to make himself look presentable. He then collected Balimond and they had left the feast, holding a light bantering conversation. As soon as they were behind closed doors, however, Balimond dropped his banter and turned to Faramir looking gravely concerned. "My friend, you know I mean you no offence, but may I speak freely?"

Knowing Balimond preferred to pace when he was worried, Faramir dropped into a chair to listen. "Please do, for I fear if you did not speak freely to me no one would." Though he said it in a jesting tone, Faramir's sentiment was real, and he did indeed value Balimond's council above all others'.

"Faramir, I know your taste for those who dwell in life's shadows. Well, and even fondly, do I remember that redhead thief who made the mistake of trying to steal Raven, not knowing she was a bondmare, the painfully thin one who always left you grinning but with bruises in odd places, the one everyone thought was a girl until he threw a temper-tantrum, challenged you to a duel, and came out bare-chested in an attempt to distract you…" Balimond shook his head at Faramir's hopeless taste in lovers, and they both smiled at the memories. Then Balimond's expression once more turned grave. "But this time, Faramir, this Wormtongue… I really don't think you should go after him. From all that I have heard this night he lives not in the grey areas, but utterly in the dark. Half of what I heard may be false, but Third Marshall Eomer seems a man who is not even capable of speaking anything but the truth, and he himself warned me that this Lord Wormtongue serves Sauron, though no one can prove it. This one, Faramir, is too dark even for you, and I ask you, for your own health, to leave him alone."

Faramir hesitated to agree, but he was indeed troubled by what he had heard. Slowly, he said, "Indeed, the Lady Eowyn warned me of much the same thing tonight, saying that she truly believes Saruman to have sided with Sauron some time after I finished my training in the tower. The Lord Wormtongue was trained at Orthanc in Isengard, just as I was, but apparently he has visited there more recently, and shortly after his return was when the King fell ill. Being both the most powerful councilor and wizard-trained in leechcraft, he nominated himself to care for the King and none could overturn him. Since that time the King has remained ill, and the Lord Wormtongue has used his unsupervised power to discourage the Rohirrim from fighting the orcs, and to discredit Lord Eomer as a young hothead unfit to have been made Third Marshal – this because Eomer is always arguing for a stronger offensive against the orcs."

Balimond was nodding. "That is very much the story I heard. Of course the Lord and the Lady are brother and sister, so they may have coordinated their stories ahead of time. I though it was quite planned how they separated us and sat each of us next to one of them."

"Verily, I thought it planned then, and in hindsight it seems even clearer. Obviously they wanted to convince us to side with them. And really, it would be the natural position to take, as we are an army and we've been fighting orcs for years."

Balimond snorted. "Never have I seen a _peaceful_ band of them."

Faramir half-smiled at this. "Nay, nor I neither." He considered for a moment more, then delivered his orders. "The more conflicting versions of the situation here I hear, the more it worries me. We need to know what's really going on. I want you to talk to the commoners, anyone you deal with in getting supplies and things. And I will talk to the nobles, let each faction try to sell me its story. That includes the Lord Wormtongue." Balimond looked about to object, but Faramir held up a hand to forestall him. "I know how to deal with dangerous political opponents, my friend. I will listen, say nothing of consequence, and," a bit of ironic humor found its way into Faramir's tone, "I will not try to seduce him."

"And if he tries to seduce you?"

Faramir pouted. "Much as I would enjoy that, I deem it most unlikely. He clearly likes the Lady Eowyn, or didn't you notice?" Balimond just regarded him sternly. "Oh all right…" Faramir gave in. "If he attempts to seduce me I'll try valiantly to resist. Happy now?"

Balimond grumped comically, "Well, I _suppose_ I'll have to be content with that."

Faramir chuckled, then yawned and stretched. "Anything else we need to discuss tonight?"

"No, I think we've covered it all." Balimond yawned as well – it was contagious. "Sleep well my friend."

"Dream well, you mean?" Faramir grinned wickedly. "I shall give it my best effort."

Balimond snorted. "I swear, I don't know how you manage to be a decent Captain when your mind's in your britches half the time…" Both guardsmen chuckled at the familiar complaint, and Balimond yawned again and left for his own room.

When he was alone Faramir let his cheerful countenance slide away, revealing the worry he truly felt. Saruman turned to the side of Sauron, and the mesmerizing Lord Wormtongue with him… it was frighteningly possible. Or rather, the mesmerizing Grima son of Galmod, as Eowyn had named him, saying that he was called Wormtongue mockingly, for his persuasive lies. Try though he might, Faramir could feel no horror at the thought that the dark man might be a spy; espionage seemed such a natural occupation for such a man, as natural as stalking deer would be to a wolf.

Despite his reassurances to Balimond, Faramir knew that if by some unlikely chance Grima _did_ attempt to seduce him, Faramir would want nothing more than to accede to anything those fragile cerulean eyes asked of him. It wouldn't seem wrong at all. On the contrary, it would feel far too right to give himself over to this man of the enemy's; _far_ too right for something that might imperil the lives of his men. As a soldier who had seen more than enough of death and expected to see as much again before this war was over… as a spare son who would never father children and was thus so unneeded that his own father would exile him as a mere matter of policy… well, Faramir was perhaps not as careful of his own life as he ought to be. But the lives of his men were his responsibility, and he would not forgive himself if his fixation with Grima endangered that. Yet Faramir _wanted_ Grima. _Badly_. Wanted the dark man – how had Eowyn put it? – ah yes, 'as his shadow', the complementary darkness to Faramir's sunlight. Faramir had promised Balimond he would not make any advances on the man, but how was Faramir to resist when Grima drew him as the night does the day, as the moon the sun?

Unable to really settle the issue in his mind, Faramir eventually gave up and went to bed. Despite his best intentions, he dreamed nothing of interest.

***

In the morning Faramir had not even to seek out Grima to hear his side of the story. Grima came to Faramir (intending to warn him away from Eowyn, though Faramir did not know this). Faramir heard nothing but an out of place rustle of cloth behind him; yet his warrior-trained instincts were triggered and he spun on his heel, taking up a defensive stance though he did not have his sword drawn. Then, identifying Grima, Faramir immediately relaxed and smiled brightly. "Ah, just the man I was looking for!"

Grima meanwhile, had taken half a step back in startlement at Faramir's sudden movement, but when Faramir smiled, Grima knew that he was safe; Faramir had not found him out, was not about to attack him. Still, he did not relax as completely as Faramir had – Grima _never_ relaxed completely in another's presence, but particularly that of a man he intended to argue with. Grima would not have lived very long as the least-beloved noble in Edoras by letting his guard down. With a bit of effort he managed to return Faramir an oily expression that passed as a smile. "You sought me, my Lord Faramir? Pray tell me how I may be of assistance."

"Nay, I need no assistance. I merely wished to tender my apology for whatever it was about my conversation with the Lady Eowyn that upset you last night. Truly it was an innocent conversation: we were merely pleased to discover that we have a like of swordplay and horses in common."

Though Faramir had fashioned his statement to reassure Grima, in the light of what Eowyn had said of that conversation, the dark man was very far from pleased. "It is well know that the Lady Eowyn _fancies_ such pursuits."

Faramir thought it amazing how much accusation the man could get into one perfectly innocent sentence. He said placatingly, "And I as well, any man of my company could tell you as much. They are not uncommon interests. Perhaps you share them yourself?" Grima regarded this suggestion with an expression of mixed disbelief and disdain, at which Faramir chuckled. "Well, I thought not. You look more the type to like books, perhaps. Works of art? Theories of the human mind? And, of course, the Lady Eowyn."

Grima started at this last suggestion, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you imply, my Lord?"

"Nothing, in faith, only that I am well familiar with the pangs of love unrequited, and can recognize the malady in another." Faramir tried to show his sympathy and honesty with his expression, but the dark man was having none of it.

"Do not jest with _me_, Gondor. I have no doubt that with your fair form and features women fall into your hands like apples from the tree on a windy day." Faramir looked up hopefully at this statement, but he could read naught in Grima's face but bitter envy.

Faramir sighed tiredly. "I thank you for your flattering estimation. And perhaps it would be true… were it women that I courted."

Grima snorted at Faramir's quibbling. "Ladies, then; for all that they aspire to maidenly purity and noble ideals, they are women as well, and as easily moved by a pair of broad shoulders."

Faramir gave an amused snort. "I am sure it is as you say, my Lord, but I would not know – I do not court ladies neither." When Grima regarded him with confusion, Faramir elaborated playfully, "I wonder that no one has told you yet – you have eyes and ears all over Edoras, do you not? Yet no one has borne you the tale of the queer bent of the Captain's heart? I am astonished."

Grima all but hissed, "I have heard the tale of the Captain who left his audience with the King in a daze and proclaimed himself terribly in love with the Lady Eowyn, if that is the tale of which you speak."

Faramir looked astonished. "Eowyn? Nay, I never said such. I confessed myself smitten, truly, but it was not Eowyn of whom I spoke."

Grima's jaw dropped in surprise, but he quickly caught himself and shut it again, regaining his ruffled composure. With a mixture of hope and disbelief he asked, "Not?"

Faramir chuckled. "Certainly not. The Lady is not at all to my taste."

Grima looked highly skeptical of this. "Her yellow locks do not catch your eye?"

"Indeed, rather than yellow I would fain gaze on inky tresses." Greatly daring, Faramir reached out and wrapped a strand of Grima's hair playfully around his forefinger.

Grima froze at this small invasion of his personal space – no one ever casually touched him! Grima waited, braced for a painful yank and perhaps an insult about the damned oil that coated his hair no matter how often he washed it, a problem that never seemed to plague these _perfect_ blondes. Yet Faramir did not even grimace in disgust, merely let the hair slip gently free of his fingers. It was almost… a caress? But of course that was a ridiculous idea. Grima scowled to himself, unable to fathom what Faramir had intended with the odd gesture. Most likely some obscure joke… yet Faramir's smile was friendly, not mocking…

Faramir, meanwhile, had continued to answer Grima's question, clarifying, "Yet that preference is not what I meant."

Annoyance snapped Grima out of his disconcertment. "I am out of patience for your quibbling!" he growled. "Perhaps you did not name Eowyn, but it _must _have been she you meant, there were no others at the audience!"

Faramir hesitated, remembering the promise he had made to Balimond, but he really could not leave the man he desired thinking that Faramir fancied _Eowyn_. "Oh indeed there were others at the audience. _You_ were there."

Grima's thoughts tangled. _I??? He cannot mean… But he said, 'I do not court women'… His hand in my hair…_ Uncertain and helpless to put together a coherent thought, the only response Grima managed was an unsteady, "What?"

Faramir sighed, not in frustration but in discontent that something as fundamental as his basic nature tended to startle others into stammering confusion. Oh, and also in guilt that he was about to largely, if not completely, violate his promise to Balimond. Faramir took a deep breath, and slowly and clearly he spelled it out for Grima. "I. Do. Not. Court. Women. I. Court. _Men_. When I spoke of being sorely smitten… I spoke of you. Not Eowyn, not any other maiden; _you_. You mesmerize me – when you're in the room I can barely look away."

And Grima remembered suddenly, remembered noticing Faramir staring at him, and thinking little of it, for men often stared at the monument of ugliness they called Wormtongue.

"I know not what game you play, _my Lord_, but break not your jests on me, you will have no success. I know well that I have no beauty, and no creature lives who looks on me and likes the sight." Grima's mouth twisted with the bitterness of this truth.

Faramir blinked in surprise – that was not the objection he had expected. "I have not, perhaps, the average man's taste, but I find you fair enough. Have you never looked into a mirror?"

Grima grimaced. "Be assured, I avoid them."

"Then perhaps you have never seen your eyes as pale as the winter sky on a cloudless day. Perhaps you have never seen your skin like alabaster, your lips the color of snowberries, your hair like raven feathers."

Grima regarded Faramir for a moment with disbelief, then laughed bitterly. "I need no mirror to know what I look like; I see myself clearly enough in the disgust that dwells in others' eyes when they look upon me."

In a momentary fit of anger at whoever had so mistreated this poor man that he could not conceive of anyone seeing anything good in him, Faramir seized Grima's jaw and forced him to meet his gaze. Using his Captain's tone so that Grima would take the words to heart, Faramir said imperatively, "Grima called Wormtongue, look into _my_ eyes and know what _I_ see! I speak the _truth_! You draw me as a candle flame draws a moth; I _cannot_ escape, nor would I _wish_ to!" Then Faramir realized that he was probably hurting the smaller man. Embarrassed at his lack of control, he released Grima's jaw and made no move to stop him as he stumbled back a step. "I have given you my heart – do with it what you will. I would, of course, prefer you treat it gently, but that has not often been my luck in life and I do not expect it." Defensively Faramir folded his arms across his chest and turned his face away. "Do what you will… only do not call me a liar."

Grima absolutely did not know how to respond to this. His only instinct was to run away to some safe den where he could hide and analyze what had just happened. So, seizing the opportunity of Faramir's momentary inattention, he quietly backed off a few steps and slipped away between a pair of pillars.

Unobtrusive though Grima's withdrawal was, Faramir heard it; yet he made no move to turn, believing it neither wise, nor his right, to stop the other's retreat. He merely cursed himself for not having had the strength of will to inquire about the more strategically important matter of Saruman and hold his tongue about matters of the heart. Would that he had not seen that hopelessly wanting look on Grima's face yesterday, for he had not been able to forget it today, and now it had been his undoing. Any man who could look so lost deserved to be held and loved and comforted, and if Eowyn and the other Rohirrim couldn't see that then it was entirely their loss, and Faramir was glad of the opportunity to be the one to offer Grima solace. Alas, though, that Grima seemed to like women only; it would truly be a tragedy if Grima couldn't take what he needed because only a man had the heart to offer it.

***

Falling back on defensive patterns learned in a harsh childhood, Grima fled. He locked himself in his rooms and huddled, not at the desk where he usually worked, but on the bed, wrapping himself in the quilt which was one of the few objects he ever took comfort in. Some woman's hands had made it, though he knew not whose, as one of the hall's gifts to the new young councilor. It was well wrought, even pretty with its wheeling yellow and white stars on a background the rich blue of the evening sky. Many a winter's night he, with his sickly frame, had been glad of its warmth. Though Edoras' most powerful councilor might be politically invulnerable during the day, no man was immune to a Rohanian winter's cutting cold and the wind that often howled through the city's streets at night, and Grima felt these more piercingly than most. Also, it pleased him to think that someone had wrought the thing with his comfort in mind, even if that had been before they actually met him and found him nothing worth being concerned for.

And that was the crux of the odd scene with Faramir. Faramir prefer men to a beauty like Eowyn? Faramir fancy _him_? _He_, who was foul both in personality _and_ appearance, despite the care he tried to take with his robes and demeanor? It was not to be credited. Yet Faramir, though he did not wear his thoughts on his face like that fool Eomer, and though he seemed fond of jests and might arrange an elaborate one, still he was a man with a high opinion of himself, who would not stoop to uttering poetic nonsense like 'lips the color of snowberries' unless some madness, like infatuation, were to momentarily relieve him of his common sense. Grima snorted. Someone should point out to Faramir that snowberries were quite poisonous.

Madness indeed; it must be some kind of madness for a man to seek a lover of his own sort rather than a woman who might bear him children, tend his house, warm his bed with her soft curves… what could one man _do_ with another anyway? Either very little, or possibly something painful if one were to take a female role… either way, Grima did not want to think about it. Grima was a clever man, a pragmatic and an adaptable one… but when it came to what people did in their bedchambers he had had little chance to overcome his naivete. Thus he was not prepared to deal with these unsettling ideas which he had never had a chance to research in his scrolls and mull over in the secret safety of his own mind. 

But then again… Faramir had just given Grima a key which could easily be used to manipulate him; the part of Grima's soul that thrilled at masterfully manipulating those around him absolutely refused to let go such a powerful bit of information. _Faramir wants me. I could have the princeling wrapped around my little finger, could I bring myself to…_ and there Grima's thoughts balked like a recalcitrant horse and absolutely refused to go any farther.

***

Faramir, meanwhile, had recovered much more quickly from the encounter. He had plenty of experience with men reacting badly to his overtures, and since Grima had neither called him unprintable names nor threatened him with a blade, this did not rank particularly low on that scale. In point of fact, Grima's reaction had not been bad enough to cause Faramir to give up all hope of winning him over; Faramir was merely biding his time to allow the dark man to regain his mental balance before he tried again.

So, while Grima locked himself in his room and huddled in his security blanket, Faramir went out to the stables, saddled Raven, and rode out to where Prince Theodred was to discuss attaching groups of Gondorian guardsmen to each of the Rohanian sweep teams, to 'learn the lay of the land'.

Theodred was much pleased with this idea, seeing it as a way to ignore Wormtongue's unwise restrictions without provoking the man overmuch. They discussed the plan for a while until both leaders were satisfied with the details, then they issued their orders. The first combined sweep team was set to leave at noon, and another an hour before nightfall.

Theodred, impressed with Faramir's willingness to work around Wormtongue, expressed his appreciation by complementing his troops' orderliness and loyalty, and the fine conformation and condition of the Captain's black mare.

Faramir smiled fondly at Raven and patted her neck. "Ah yes, Raven's my baby. I raised her by hand you know."

"Oh, is she really that gangling foal you were nursing last time I was in Minas Tirith? She looks like she could carry a man in full armor through a full day of battle!"

Faramir grinned. "Aye, she could. And she'd only do it for me. Don't spread this around, I like to keep it a secret, but… she's a bondmare."

Theodred's eyes got big with delight. "Indeed? Truly? I'd begun to think I was the only one who'd managed that feat in the past decade. Stormissan is a bond-stallion." He patted his own mount's withers. "For all that he's un-cut, he's as obedient as a loyal hound." Faramir received this news with equal delight, and the two spent several content hours discussing how they had accomplished their bondings (hands-on mothering) and why more people didn't manage it (weren't willing to invest the time, didn't really love the horse). 

Theodred ventured the thought, "Eowyn might have managed it – she truly has the horse-think – but she was so eager to be a shieldmaiden riding into battle against the orcs that she chose her Windfola full grown rather than raise a foal." Faramir nodded polite agreement. To himself, he thought_, Ah, this then might be the real difference between Eowyn and I. She does not love Grima because she sees a cowardly, spiteful tool of evil… which I suppose he is, but that's not what I see. I see a tormented child, a lonely man, the devious and creative advisor he could have been, perhaps still might be if I could have my way. Eowyn sees the thing as it is, which is a practical way to look at things, but I see the thing as the sum of its potentials, and it is this more whimsical way of thinking that opens the door to truly great accomplishments… like the love of a bondmare, or the love of a man. Or at least, that's what I'll tell myself to justify being an impractical romantic._ Faramir smiled wryly at himself.

Then Faramir remembered his assignment to find out the nobles' views on Saruman and Wormtongue, so they discussed that for a while. Faramir satisfied himself that Theodred agreed with Eowyn and Eomer in all the main points, which was helpful, if also depressing.

Then Faramir went off to investigate Balimond's progress, and satisfied himself on that account. He did not confess to Balimond his mis-managed encounter with the Lord Wormtongue, though he felt like a disobedient schoolboy for keeping it a secret, but he told himself he could discuss the matter better after he had seen Grima once more and saw how he reacted – the man's reaction this morning had really been kind of a null reaction, a refusal to even take the idea in, but he would likely get over that and pick a definite emotional reaction either this day or the next.

That evening there was a simple dinner, at which Faramir and Eowyn did not sit together, and Grima did not approach either of them. And then each of the three retired to their beds, each nursing their own particular secrets.

***

That night, Grima dreamt. He dreamt of Eowyn, fair but so cold, melted to passion for him by Saruman's spell. He dreamt of soft lips and softer breasts, and his name on her breath, his true name, not that foul epithet. He dreamt of cascades of silken blond hair… and then he awoke, sighing to realize it was a dream. Grima wanted to curl in on himself in disappointment, force himself back to sleep and either the haven of the dream or else blessed forgetfulness. Yet he was too far awake now, and his erection ached to be touched. Admitting defeat, he sighed again and closed his eyes trying to recapture the images. Slipping a hand beneath his nightshirt, he imagined, as he touched himself, blond strands of silk brushing across his chest, his lips, his cheeks. And suddenly the thought sprung into his mind, completely unbidden and unexpected: _Were it Faramir I wanted, I could have his blond hair brushing against me in reality, and not fantasy only. And his lips would follow where his tresses had gone… _Grima's eyes snapped open wide and he removed his hand as if burned. _Nonononono I did not just imagine… _that_. I did NOT._ And in his disconcertment he gave up all hope of release, turned over, and hid his face in the pillow, hoping simply for unconsciousness.

***

Eowyn did not dream, but paced, sleepless and ill at ease. A serving girl built up the fire for the night as usual, then hesitated, looking with concern at the obviously distracted Lady Eowyn. Eowyn irritably waved the girl out of the room and, when she was gone, locked the door behind her. Then the Lady resumed her pacing, and her train of thought. _The atmosphere at dinner was very strange tonight. I thought surely Wormtongue would gloat to see me not siting next to Faramir, but he barely seemed to notice. Indeed, he seemed almost to fear looking at Faramir, and I as well did not feel Wormtongue's unsettling amphibian gaze on me as much as usual. Perhaps Wormtongue picked a quarrel with Faramir, and came off the worse for once, trounced by Faramir's sharp wit and good humor?_ Eowyn considered this idea hopefully for a moment, then sadly discarded it as unlikely – incomprehensible though it was, Faramir _liked_ Wormtongue, and would not quarrel with him. And Faramir, though he had been quiet, had looked as kind and sweet-tempered as ever, not as if he'd been quarreling with anyone.

__

So, what then? Perhaps… perhaps one of Wormtongue's spies has borne him the news that Faramir fancies him, and now Wormtongue is afraid to go anywhere near the Captain? Eowyn almost giggled at the thought. _But no, Wormtongue is ruthless and no crime is beneath him if it will bring him more power. If he had discovered Faramir's weakness, he would have been smiling maliciously as he plotted the Captain's downfall. There would be no reason for him to fear – he would not even have to let Faramir touch him, merely tell a few of his silvertongued lies – and the golden Faramir would be his to command like a puppet._ Eowyn felt sickened and furious at the thought of how easily Faramir would fall to Wormtongue's sneaking snakery; for fall he surely would – Wormtongue's spies were everywhere, and eventually one would discover the Captain's weak spot. Eowyn ached to be able to prevent such a tragedy, but she was helpless to do anything about it. If only Faramir did not on Wormtongue with such inexplicable… if _only_ Faramir truly did like Eowyn as Wormtongue had mistakenly accused, for Eowyn would be glad to requite him and fight alongside him to escape the councilor's defiling domination!

***

Unconsciousness had not obliged him. An hour later Grima lay, greatly irritated, in a sweaty knot of nightshirt and bedsheets, hopelessly tangled by his restlessness. _Gods I'm pitiful!_ he thought sarcastically. _Behold the great councilor, reduced to a disheveled mess by a few ridiculous compliments from a foolish princeling._ It seemed Grima would have to resign himself to sleeplessness this night. Perhaps there was enough heat left in the fireplace to light a candle, and he might read, though he had practically memorized the meager case of books he had managed to have imported to godforsaken uncultured Edoras… Even the royal family, for all that they aspired to be wise rulers, had no more love of books than the rudest farmer or soldier, for this was all they were at heart, soldiers and farmers. Except once… once Grima had had great hopes for Eowyn. The most scholarly of the three royal children, young Eowyn had taken some small interest in the precious volumes of history and poetry; but then Eomer, that _brat_, had been jealous of having her attention on the books instead of on him. Eomer had impressed upon her his contempt for books and preference for swordplay instead, and in her anxiousness to emulate her elder brother Eowyn had forgotten scholarship. Grima had tried to draw her interest back with tales of dashing heroes and valiant shieldmaidens, but to no avail; all he could do in the end was mourn this change of her heart.

Suddenly, an absolutely utterly awful idea crept up and smacked Grima over the head. Eowyn_ knew_. 'H-he told me who he fancies.' she had stammered, and Grima, assuming Eowyn meant herself, had lost his temper and not questioned her further. But she _hadn't_ meant herself. And when she had asked, 'Surely you don't…?' and choked on the rest of her accusation, what had she _really_ been asking? 'Surely you don't _believe_ that _he_ could like _you_?' 'Surely you don't… _desire_ him?' he imagined Eowyn grimacing in loathing, and it was all too easy to do so, for she had directed that expression at him before, and the imagined accusation bit deeply because of the hint of truth to it. Ah, Eowyn… beautiful, strong, fiery-tempered but steady, like the summer sun… who was utterly disgusted by his love for her, offended that he would dare presume to look on her nobility. And what would _she_ think if she knew brave, golden, _perfect_ Faramir had offered 'the _Wormtongue_' his heart? She already thought Grima twisted beyond any redemption, it was probably easy for her to imagine him as a creature of unnatural lusts. Never mind that his love for her was the purest thing he had; as true as anything Eowyn had ever felt, as innocent as Faramir spouting poetry.

Logically he knew that anyone who could be so cruel to him as Eowyn was did not deserve his love; even _Faramir_, male though he was, _madman_ though he was, would make a better choice, for he was unfailingly kind. Eowyn must have been horrified when Faramir told her, must have warned him fervently against Grima's treachery, though this had not dissuaded Faramir from making his liking known to Grima. And yet Grima could hardly blame Eowyn for her cold dislike; it was true that he was a repulsive creature, who betrayed his own King and country, though they had mistreated him first. He could hardly blame her… but neither had he ever been able to quite forgive her for not being gracious enough to forgive him. Nor could he forgive his own weakness when he noticed the tears of frustration which had, without his permission, started trickling down his cheeks. Grima snarled fiercely, trying to fend off the contemptible drops of salt wetness, but it was too late; his emotions had the bit in their teeth and there was no reining them in. A hiss of anger slipped into a sob. Bitterly frustrated with the innumerable ways in which his body and the world betrayed him, Grima hid his face in the pillow, letting it muffle his sobs and sniffles. As long as no one heard him he could try to forget this embarrassment tomorrow.

At length Grima's tears spent themselves, and he slept.

***

Faramir also dreamt that night, not a true dream but the vague worrying shadows that often came to him as a warning that there would be a battle on the morrow. A prophetic dream, legacy of the witch blood that ran in the blood of Gondor's nobility; the talent for such dreaming was the one piece of evidence that Faramir might truly be Denethor's son, which Faramir kept quiet because, at this point, he truly had no wish to be related to that cruel old man.

And in the morning, true to Faramir's premonition, battle did indeed come. It came in the form of Gandalf Greyhame, riding the missing Kinghorse Shadowfax, and leading a small but tremendously powerful handful of men: the legendary Aragorn son of Arathorn, an elfin archer, a dwarven warrior, and Faramir's own older brother, Boromir. Boromir, who agreed with Lord Denethor that no true man had any business _wanting_ a male lover, much less actually _loving_ one. Though at least Boromir got along with Faramir well enough if the other's queer desire was not mentioned.

***

That fateful morning, Gandalf Greyhame arrived and laid low all Grima's careful plans by driving Saruman's possessing spirit out of the bespelled King. Grima was exposed as a traitor, and Theoden, regaining his strength, drew his sword and threatened his treacherous councilor on the steps of the golden hall. One misstep in his retreat and Grima sprawled, utterly vulnerable, on the hard stone stairs. Theoden raised his sword to strike downward at his foe, as he would at a venomous snake that threatened his feet. Faramir's eyes widened in horror. Hoping desperately that Theoden was still too weak to swing that sword, Faramir threw himself between the angry King and the fallen man. "My Lord! Theoden King!"

The King did not swing his sword, and Faramir let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding in relief, then took another deep breath in and launched into his plea. "My Lord, I ask in the name of Faramir son of Denethor, Captain and second heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, that you spare this man's life!"

"Faramir?" Theoden blinked, not remembering the Captain's arrival, but recognizing in the man before him the boyish second heir to the Stewardship, whom he had met years before. Then recalling the matter at hand, Theoden shook off the question of Faramir's presence in Edoras as an irrelevancy. "And why," ground out Theoden, "should I not slit him from gorge to groin for his crimes against myself and Rohan?"

"But think a moment, my Lord!" implored Faramir, "What crimes has he actually committed? He has been accused of drugging you, but behold, as soon as Gandalf freed you from Saruman's spell you have regained your strength – no drug holds you still weak, does it?" Faramir saw that Theoden was considering this, and pressed his point. "And what other crime has he been accused of? Advising a lack of action against the orcs? Advising against entry into a war that many think unwinnable? Would you really kill your councilor just for giving advice with which you and I do not agree?"

Eowyn watched, horrified, as her uncle, finally freed from his infirmity, was once again being led astray by treacherous words. There _had_ been a drug, and Faramir knew it as well as she did! Outraged and desperate to intervene, she yet hesitated, utterly torn; though she truly feared and perhaps even hated Wormtongue and would be much gratified to see justice done by means of his death, yet truly too she liked Faramir and would not see him suffer the pain Grima's death would cause him. Were it in his nature, she would have gladly taken Faramir as her golden Lord, but barring that she would fain see him happy with another. That it was Wormtongue Faramir chose… well, that did gall her. Never would she have imagined she could be jealous of that serpent. And then at odd moments, when she had fought down her embarrassing enviousness, she could even take amusement in the twisted triangle of unrequited love they three were caught in.

So – now was the moment when Eowyn ought to speak up, to list the crimes Wormtongue was truly guilty of. Theodred and Eomer were not here to speak – they were patrolling and would not even hear of this forenoon's events until they returned for dinner – so if Eowyn did not speak, no one would, and Wormtongue would go unpunished for his crimes. So she really ought to speak up, and quickly… and yet she read the plea on Faramir's face and hesitated. Almost, Wormtongue looked worth defending when it was Faramir fighting so desperately in his defense. Almost, Faramir looked so true and fair and heroic that whatever he argued must be right, and whoever he favored must be pitiable. Almost. But Eowyn _truly_ ought to speak now, on Theodred and Eomer's behalf if not her own. She opened her mouth… and it was too late, because Theoden was pronouncing his judgment.

"Faramir son of Denethor, out of respect for Gondor and thy lineage I grant thee this man's life to do with as thou wilt. But my eyes have been freed to see his deceit, and I will not allow them to be fogged again. This man is not welcome in Edoras; if he is not gone by the time the sun sets, any man who wishes is free to take his life without penalty."

The lovelorn triad let out a collective sigh of relief, though none spared the attention to notice the others do so.

__

Exile, thought Eowyn, satisfied that some penalty less than death was being imposed, but feeling very guilty for letting herself dither and hesitate to do the right thing until the choice was taken from her hands.

__

Exile, thought Faramir, relief at having saved Grima's life cut through by piercing sorrow that he must leave and Faramir stay, and both of these drowned out by Faramir's internal soldier, who shouted for a plan to get Grima safely away from the town before anyone thought to object.

_Exile_, thought Grima, stunned. _I live, yet all my plans are ruined. I shall never have Eowyn, though the promise of that privilege was the price for which I sold my soul. Where shall I go? To Saruman I suppose, surely he shall find some other use for his tool, though I have failed at the task I was made for… Faramir_, realized Grima, _I owe Faramir my life. But what good is it that I live, _he silently demanded, anguished,_ if I shall never have Eowyn?_

Faramir interrupted Grima's dazed thoughts by grasping him under the armpits and pulling him to his feet. "The stables, quickly!" he whispered urgently in the other man's ear, trying not to catch the attention of anyone who might challenge their retreat. Faramir propelled the still stunned man in the right direction, hoping no one would take any notice of them. Grima regained the full use of his sharp mind and steadied his balance and his running feet. Yes, the stables, that was an excellent idea, he could steal a horse and flee to Saruman. Saruman would not be pleased about his loss of control over Theoden, but he could not expect a mere man to have fended off the wizard Gandalf. Gandalf that interfering, ill-omened…! Grima shook the thought out of his head. There would be time enough to plot revenge later – now was the time to plan an escape, and quickly. "Need to steal a horse…" muttered Grima to himself.

"You will take Raven." stated Faramir, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Raven?" Grima did not recognize the name.

"My bondmare. She is fleet of foot, but more importantly, if you are ever in peril she will bring you to me that I may aid you, just say my name a few times and give her free rein."

Grima's jaw had dropped in shock after the word 'bondmare'. Even among the men of Rohan, bred-in-the-bone horsemen, there were few men indeed who could bond to a horse. Such a feat required raising the horse completely by hand, acting as both its master and its mother, as well as a talent for 'thinking as the horse'. And should a man manage the feat of a horse-bonding, he would be loath indeed to let the horse out of his sight; bondhorses were rarely lent, and _never_ given as gifts. Grima had never even been permitted to touch such an animal.

While all this was running through Grima's mind, Faramir's hurried pace had carried them into the stables, and he had located Raven's stall. "Aha, here!" Faramir grabbed the saddle blanket off of its rack and slapped it on Raven's back, then hurriedly moved on to the saddle. Two minutes later Raven stood bridled and ready, snorting from the scent of her master's anxiety.

Faramir stood at the mare's head and spoke to her soothingly. "Raven, this is Grima. He's going to ride you, I grant my permission. Take care of him as you would me." Still holding the mare's head cradled against his chest, Faramir held out his hand to Grima. "Give me your hand." Grima hesitated. "Your hand, man, for the mare to get your scent. We're in a hurry here!" So Grima hesitantly placed his hand in Faramir's, who impatiently grasped his wrist and tugged him closer for Raven to smell. "Grima." repeated Faramir to the mare. "Take care of him for me." Raven whinnied, and Faramir, satisfied, released Grima and gestured him towards the saddle. "Up!"

At this Grima looked doubtful; Raven was a tall horse, her withers at a level with Grima's forehead, and the stirrup hung slightly above his waist. Normally a Lord Advisor of Rohan was accorded a mounting block, but there was no time to retrieve one now. Spurred by the thought of the barely-stayed wrath of his enemies in the golden hall, Grima stepped forward, grasping the saddle bow with his left hand and placing the other on Raven's hip, ready to attempt a vault into the saddle. But when Faramir saw Grima step up to the mare and not even be able to look over Raven's back, he immediately recognized the problem, and strode to Grima's aid.

"Here." said Faramir, voice gruff with slight embarrassment, as he put his hands on Grima's waist. "Now jump." Grima jumped, and Faramir lifted him into the saddle, as he had many times had to do out of courtesy for assorted noble maidens of Gondor, who had an disconcerting tendency to blush and simper at his touch. Grima, of course, did neither; it was Faramir who had the impulse to blush at the feel of Grima's frail waist in his hands.

Grima merely looked down at Faramir and, disconcerted and caught up in the strange intimacy of the moment, Grima said the thing that had been dwelling in his mind for the past few moments. "I can't believe you're trusting me with your bondhorse."

The corner of Faramir's mouth crooked in a small, true smile. "Well, you already have my heart. Next to that, a bondmare is nothing." Then the amusement faded from his features, as he gazed up at Grima with wide eyes and realized that in the fortunes of war he might never even again set eyes on this man, when what Faramir desired with all his heart was never to leave Grima's side. Without consciously giving his legs permission to move, Faramir found that he had stepped forward until his chest pressed against Grima's knee and Raven's shoulder, and was looking longingly upward into those pale eyes. "Grima, please, could I…?" Without waiting for an answer Faramir stood on the tips of his toes and pulled a startled Grima's face down to him until their lips met in a brief kiss. There was no time for finesse, for sucking that eloquent tongue or nibbling those pale lips, but Faramir tried to pour all the passion he felt for this man he would have as his shadow into the fleeting caress of lip on lip. Then he tore himself away, not wanting to see Grima's expression lest it be one of disgust. He grabbed at Raven's reins, and hurriedly pulled the horse out into the aisle of the stable and towards the main doors, the ones that faced the city gates.

As the reached the threshold where the shadows of the stables gave way to the sunshine streaming outside, Faramir found the courage to glance at Grima's expression once more. Seeing that Grima's countenance bore no anger, only shadows of worry, Faramir found the courage to ask, "Where will you go?"

Grima hesitated, but Faramir would not tell, and even if he did the information could do no more harm than had already been done. "To Isengard. To Saruman, he will surely have some new task for me." There, it was confessed – let Faramir recoil now if he would, and be done with this farce. Kiss _him_, kiss the traitor _Wormtongue_? It was absurd… and the intensity of that one little moment of contact had startled Grima. Frightened him, though damned if he'd admit that even to himself. Everything would be simpler if Faramir would just look horrified and turn away like everyone else…

But Faramir just nodded, and gazed up at Grima with sad gray eyes that ached with wanting and not having... "Remember – stay near Raven, see that she is cared for, and if you ever are in need of aid, she will bear you to me."

"Faramir…" Grima hesitated, much shaken by all that had happened in the past hour, and not certain what he wished to say, yet feeling compelled to say something. "This day you have saved my life, and for that you have my gratitude. If you see that Mordor is winning the war, come wherever Saruman is encamped, tell the guards that you belong to me, and perhaps I will be able to return the favor of saving your life."

Faramir nodded, feeling a warm glow at Grima's offer despite his fear and sadness at the thought of Middle-Earth as ruled by Mordor. "I shall remember. Go now, before they get a lynch mob together for you." Grima nodded and gathered the reins, and Faramir stepped back, shouting, "Run!" and slapping Raven on the rump. She broke out into a ground eating gallop, and Faramir, feeling the strength lent by his anxiety drain out of him, slumped back against the door of the barn, murmuring "Fare well, my shadow. Luck be with you." He watched as the receding black figures of rider and mount blurred together into one shadowy smudge, then disappeared into the distance.

***

It was here, leaning against the lintel-post of the stable, that Balimond found him, most of an hour later. "There you are! Good gods man, where have you been, you missed all the excitement! The King has regained himself and would fain speak with you and accept command of the company! Your brother also – he bid me tell you he is much glad to see you again and wishes to speak with you of all that has passed since you saw each other last! And he says that his companion is Aragorn son of Arathorn, the lost heir to the Kings of Gondor! And there is to be a feast tonight – you must dress for it as soon as the King is done with you! Oh, and we're marching for Helm's Deep tomorrow." All his news delivered, Balimond wound down enough to note Faramir's defeated expression and the fact that he wasn't hurrying to the King. "…Faramir? Why stand you here looking lost?"

"I _am_ lost. My shadow is fled away, and now I know not which way the sun faces."

Balimond paused for a moment, attempting to decode this and wishing his friend didn't get poetic every time he was drunk or depressed. "Speak you of the Lord Wormtongue?"

"Name him not that cruel name!" Faramir lashed out before he could stop himself, and Balimond flinched backward half a step at his vehemence. Faramir heaved a deep sigh. "Ai, Balimond, forgive me, I am much out of sorts. I do speak of Grima. What happened was thus: Gandalf the Grey arrived with Aragorn son of Arathorn, my brother Boromir, an elf, and a dwarf. The wizard freed Theoden from what was discovered to be no illness, but Saruman's curse! Theoden then turned on Grima, naming him traitor and poisoner, and would have killed him! I stepped between them and petitioned for Grima's life; Boromir and Aragorn spoke for me also. The King relented and granted Grima's life on condition of his exile. So I… I stole him away here, mounted him on Raven, and sent him free. He is fled and gone."

"Balimond's first instinct was to demand, 'You gave him _Raven_? Have you lost your mind?!' But there was really no point in asking that, because clearly Faramir _had_ taken leave of his senses the first time he'd laid eyes on that Wormtongue. Now the man was gone (which was probably for the best) and Faramir, as per his usual pattern, would get very drunk this night and then be worthless for a few days until he got his heart patched back together. Balimond sighed and laid his hand on Faramir's shoulder in mute comfort. He could interrogate Faramir about Raven tomorrow. The mare, bondhorse though she was, had technically been Faramir's to give away, little though Balimond liked that thought…

Suddenly a strange little smile curved Faramir's lips, and Balimond felt unaccountably nervous. "It wasn't all a loss, though. I kissed him! And he thanked me, not for the kiss I mean, but for saving his life. And Raven will bring him back to me."

Balimond blinked. "Back?"

"Aye, Raven knows how to find me. Or perhaps I'll go to him." Still smiling, Faramir shrugged one shoulder. "One way or the other, before this war is over I'll see him again." Balimond's brow furrowed. This was decidedly _not_ Faramir's usual pattern. This Wormtongue – not only was he ill-favored and unliked, not to mention not apparently interested in Faramir, and _now_ he was shown for a traitor, a poisoner, and a minion of the dark, and _still_ Faramir intended to pursue him? _Go_ to him, right into the lap of the dark? Even in the depths of infatuation or intoxication Faramir usually had more sense than that. On the other hand Faramir was also a stubborn bastard. Balimond might be able to talk some sense into him, but attempting to do so tonight, when Faramir was freshly distressed and in this strange state of mind, would just aggravate him. At the moment Balimond wasn't sure whether to order Faramir to go lie down until he was in his right mind again, or to hope his Captain would be comforted by the familiar distraction of the diplomacy that needed to be done and the orders that needed to be given this night.

"Hmmnh." said Balimond noncommittally. "Well, I wish you luck with that plan. Now, are you feeling well enough to come talk to the King and your brother, or would you rather lie down for a while?"

Dignity slightly offended, Faramir grumbled, "Oh, I _suppose_ I can manage to cede control of my company to the King and put up with Boromir for the duration of one feast, though I am not much in the spirit for any of it. It would do me no good to hide from my duties." Balimond nodded encouragingly, somewhat reassured by this commonsense statement, and they went into the golden hall.

***

Faramir had spoken to Theoden King and ceded him official authority over his company, though really he would have preferred to remain their sole commander. Faramir had dressed for the feast and played nice with everyone there: carrying a light conversation with his brother (thankfully the long list of things Faramir did not want to talk to Boromir about were all inappropriate for dinner table conversation) and greeting the mysterious Aragorn, the elf, and the dwarf. Balimond had planted himself firmly at Faramir's side and was watching him like a worried mother hen. Eowyn asked Faramir if he was well, and Faramir managed to smile a bit at this, because he recognized the awkward sympathy in her eyes. Eomer, on the other hand, was loudly celebrating Grima's exile, and _that_ was a bit hard to endure without lashing out something like, _How dare you celebrate when my poor shadow rides fearing for his life?!_ But out-of-favor princes must learn to be masters of restraint, and somehow Faramir managed not to so much as glare at Eomer, much less challenge him to a duel.

When the banquet _finally_ came to a close, Faramir just _had_ to go hide somewhere. And thinking of Grima and hiding, Faramir was suddenly struck by the need to see the place Grima hid from things; some odd instinct told him his heart might find some comfort there. Ordering Balimond to oversee the company's packing to march the following morning got Faramir's mother-hen out of the way, and the simple expedient of telling a servant to take him to Wormtongue's rooms got him led directly where he wanted to go. Thank the gods _something_ was easy tonight. The door had been left open, and it was clear someone had been rummaging through the room, seeing if there was anything incriminating there. Faramir ached at the signs of violated privacy and disrespect – drawers half-open, the contents of a trunk strewn about, a scroll being crushed under the corner of a book that had been tossed carelessly onto the table… Faramir pushed the door closed to defend the room and his own sorrow from prying eyes, then walked over to the table, picking up the scroll and trying to smooth out the marks where the book's weight had crumpled it.

Clearly this had been Grima's writing desk, and the bookcase behind it was his library. Faramir ran a fond hand over the spines of the books, identifying some of the classic titles he too had acquired a copy of after studying them at Orthanc, under Saruman. Saruman… Faramir shook his head, unable to understand how a wizard with hundreds of years of wisdom and such a love for learning and art could ever take the side of Sauron in attempting to destroy it all. And Grima had gone back to his side because the wizard's was the only community with which the dark man could claim a place and a little power. Faramir's own disfavor and subsequent unofficial exile meant he could not have sent Grima to stay under the Steward's authority. All those years studying in Orthanc had prevented him from making good friends among the nobility of Minas Tirith, so he had no friends in the city who were close enough to him to shelter a fugitive for him. Balimond would do it, of course, but Balimond was _here_, not in Gondor.

Faramir grimaced. Really, being the second heir to the Stewardship was not as useful as one would think. Faramir would no doubt be much farther ahead had he taken a page from Grima's book and poisoned his 'father'… but that would have been harmful to all of Gondor, and Faramir did love Gondor. He loved everything about it, from its view across the river into hell, to its many ruined temples and fortresses, to the street markets that really gave Minas Tirith its character. Faramir sighed and tucked the stray book and scroll into the shelf. Perhaps he could send a man here later this evening to pack up the books, have them stored somewhere until it became clear which side was going to win the war, whether Grima would come to him, of he would go to Grima and Saruman. Because if he saw that Gondor was going to be ravaged, Faramir _would_ go to the dark to protect his own life and try to see to it that the fruits of the world's learning, the priceless treasures of Minas Tirith's libraries and works of art, would be spared.

Not wanting to dwell on these dark thoughts, Faramir resumed looking around the room. It was actually quite sparsely furnished; Grima did not seem to be the sort of man who collected trophies or treasures of any kind. But perhaps that was because this was a room in which he sometimes received visitors. Perhaps the little personal touches would be behind that door, the one leading to the private rooms. Faramir hoped so, because he ached for comfort, and though he might find a morsel of it if he could somehow surround himself with Grima's presence, even if it was only what had rubbed off on the man's possessions and not the dark man's embrace, which was what Faramir truly needed.

Tentatively Faramir stepped into the further room – the bedchamber. It was dim because the fire in the grate had almost gone out. Faramir took a few logs from the wood basket and fed the fire. Powerless though he was to give any further aid to Grima, Faramir could at least content himself with putting the man's violated room in order.

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows Faramir saw that this room was not much more decorated than the other. There was an average dressing table, with a water bowl and pitcher, a hairbrush, and not much else. There was a wardrobe, presumably containing Grima's clothes. And then there was the bed itself, neatly made, and covered with a charming patchwork quilt that was completely out of character with Grima's normal motif of black and sulfur yellow. Well, the yellow was about the same, but the sapphire blue and the worn-but-clean white were not at all what Faramir would have expected Grima to choose. Intrigued, and drawn by the traces of Grima's scent hanging in the air, Faramir hesitantly stepped up to the bed. He slid his palm over the quilt, feeling the taut cotton cloth, the straight lines of the seams between the patchwork pieces, the thick spots where all the corners came together in the center of each star… and he felt comforted. _This_ was where Grima's presence lived in the room.

Feeling slightly guilty at his presumption, but wanting that comforting touch too much to care, Faramir toed off his boots and curled up on the quilt, laying his head on the pillow where he could breathe Grima's tantalizing scent. _Ohhhhh, that's better. I love this quilt, every thread is permeated with him._ Idly, Faramir stroked the golden star beneath his hand. _I wonder what will become of these things when we march to Helm's Deep tomorrow? The announcement was so sudden, possibly everyone will be busy packing their own things and this room would be quite forgotten. And to them, Grima's now 'Saruman's pet, the traitorous Wormtongue'; who would want a quilt _he_ had slept under? Only I…_ Faramir continued petting the star, just letting his thoughts drift and trying to shed the hurt that had been tightly wrapped around his heart all through that torturous dinner. _Maybe I could take it… maybe no one could notice… and if I cannot lay by his side, if perhaps I will never even set eyes on him again, for a soldier may die anytime, and the greatest war this land has seen in a thousand years is about to begin… at least I could lay where he has lain, and be comforted by the scent of him in the cloth._

***

As Grima rode through the night, shadow rider on a shadow horse, he had only two thoughts in his head, continually whirling 'round and elbowing each other aside. The first thought was the question of Saruman – would he blame Grima for the fault that had allowed Gandalf in Theoden's presence with his staff? And the other thought… well, it was more of a feeling than a though. The feeling of a kiss, which, brief though it had been, seemed to have permanently branded itself upon Grima's lips. Try though he might to call Faramir's kiss a meaningless nothing, irrelevant to his future life (barring the highly unlikely event that he ever saw the man again), Grima could not banish the feeling from his mouth, or the thought from his mind. And grudgingly, he came to admit that this was reasonable – it had, after all, been his first kiss. Pitiful though that fact revealed his life to be.

At almost forty years of age he was a virgin, and the only person who had ever kissed him was a man. The one task he had been so carefully trained for, he had at last failed at. He would never possess Eowyn now – she would most likely perish when the orc army swept over the Riddermark, particularly if she insisted on playing shieldmaiden as she was wont to do. And Faramir… it was entirely likely that Faramir would perish then as well, for he was a soldier and would not retreat while there was a chance he might win his battle, and after that it would be too late. All Grima could hope for, on this dark night with the wind whistling past as Faramir's steed carried him farther and farther from Edoras, was that Saruman would forgive him his failure and give him some other task by which he could make his life mean something.

*** End of Part One ***

Thank you all for reading! Did you like the story? Please review and tell me what you would like to see in the second part! Yes, I will eventually get to a sex scene, and there will be some sort of happy ending. ^_^ I mean, this is Lord of the Rings meets Regency Romance, it _has_ to have a sex scene (or several) and a happy ending! The question is, what kind of ending should it be? If you have any requests or suggestions, feel free to share them in your comments!


	2. Chapter Two

Hi readers! There is, at long last, another chapter of _As The Moon Loves The Sun_! I, Sunandshadow,   
  
did not write this new chapter, so I cannot post it here - to read it, please search for the user Acharnae. I   
  
have edited her writing and consider it a legitimate suqual tomy own. I may also write my own ending to   
  
the story, I haven't decided yet. I'm so frustrated that all the Grima footage was cut from the third movie.   
  
Anyway, please enjoyAcharnae's second chapter of _As The Moon Loves The Sun_!  
  
- Sunandshadow 


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